


The things we do for love

by starmuffin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood, F/M, Murder, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starmuffin/pseuds/starmuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had never imagined that I would be out at four in the morning committing serial murder.<br/>All the same, I didn't have much choice about it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark

The stars were especially bright that night, I remember. The night air was cool and serene, and a faint breeze tickled the back of my neck as I looked down the scope of my rifle.

I was crouched in a shadowed fire escape, and in the parking lot below were two young men in hoodies talking in hushed voices. The one farther from me was shifting from foot to foot nervously, not meeting the gaze of the other. Through my scope I watched as the closer one pulled out a bottle of pills.

I aimed my crosshairs at the dealer's head, tensing my finger on the trigger.

A strong look came over the nervous one's face, and he began to shout.

“Hell no, that ain't gonna work for me, that wasn't the deal!”

He pulled out a pistol, aiming it at the side of the dealer's head. “You cheating me? You think I'm a fool? I don't like this, man, don't like it at all. You can't go changing things last minute...”

My finger stilled, my body going rigid as I watched this new turn of events. The first man reached for his pocket, and the other fired twice. A splatter of blood exploded from the dealer's head, and the other bullet hit his chest. 

The shooter bolted out of the parking lot before the dealer's body even hit the floor.

I sat still, breathing in slowly as I reworked my plan. The chill of morning started to creep into my bones, and the sun's rays began to melt into the sky, slowly lightening the grisly scene below.

It made me wary. I hadn't been expecting the second man to do my work for me. If I waited until I was sure he wasn't coming back, someone else might stumble across it — with me conspicuously holed up here with a rifle. Nice and innocent that would make me seem, even if my shells didn't match the wound. 

Furthermore, there was the matter of the body dying.

No, I didn't have a choice.

I slung my rifle over my shoulder and climbed down the fire escape, my boots thumping against the steel. I hit the pavement and hurried over to the body, pulling an empty soda bottle from my coat as I ran.

The man's face stared up at the sky, as if watching his soul ascend to heaven. I laughed coldly at that, sparing a glance upward. Hell, he might or might not, with how things were nowadays. If he got in, though, Peter damn well ought to be fired.

I rolled up my sleeves, tugged my latex gloves tight, and crouched down over the body. Snaking a hand under his torso, I lifted the man up into a sitting position. I held the bottle to the chest wound, letting the blood drain into it.

I held my breath and turned my head to focus on the ground behind him, counting to ten below my breath and feeling his heartbeat slow against the palm of my hand. He stirred slightly, his breath coming in odd, involuntary gasps as his body died.

Just before his pulse came to a stop, I pulled the bottle away and stood up, screwing on the cap. 

I stared at the man for a moment longer. He still clutched the bottle of pills loosely in one hand. His eyes were sightless.

I swallowed down my nausea and resisted the urge to lower his eyelids.

Wrapping the bottle in a rag, I put it back into my pocket.

I turned then, walked into a dark and welcoming alleyway leading off from the parking lot.

The warm bottle bounced against my body in time with my pace. I clutched onto it with my free hand, holding it still.

I was getting tired of this.

* * *

I took the long way, making a detour to drop the gloves in a dumpster that was not on my direct route. With back streets and intentional wrong turns, it was the edge of dawn as I made it to my destination.

I climbed up to the top of a flight of rusting iron stairs to a small porch populated by a collection of rather depressed looking plants. A found-object windchime hung by the door: spoons, shells, and more than a dozen assorted keys twinkled as they spun lazily on the strings.

Red herrings always amused me.

The real key was actually hidden inside one of the shells. I retrieved it, unlocked the door, and put it back, before sliding into the apartment.

Inside was dark, the air stuffy. The windows were papered over, only permitting the faintest glow through. It was hardly enough to see by, but fortunately I knew my way.

I crept through the apartment, down the hall and into the bedroom. There, on the bed, was the form of a man. He looked like a child in the dark, his slender form and Power Ranger pajamas not doing anything to dispel the illusion.

Quietly, I sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Judas,” I whispered, brushing the dark hair out of his face.

His eyes blinked open and focused on me. A smile spread quietly over his face, and he scooted closer to wrap his arms around my waist in a hug.

I continued to pet his hair for a second, something bitter swallowing down in my throat.

“I have your breakfast,” I said finally, pulling on his arm for him to sit up.

Judas mumbled as he complied, stretching through a yawn, and smacked his lips with a tired smile as I handed him the bottle. He drank from it in long gulps, his head leaned back so that I could watch his adam's apple bob. A dribble of dark red liquid ran from the corner of his lips, past his jaw, and then swiftly down to the hollow of his throat.

When he had drained the bottle, he gasped, lowering his head and meeting my gaze. His eyes were lucid, blue, and almost glittering at me.

“You made a mess,” I muttered, handing him a dirty shirt from his floor.

He took it wordlessly and cleaned off his throat, then slid to sit on the edge of the bed with me, his feet resting on the floor.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I didn't respond, but gently took his hand into my lap for a moment before standing up.

“Go back to sleep,” I said. “I'll see you tonight.”

Judas nodded and crawled back under the covers. I watched him for one more second before heading out into the kitchen.

I got down the hall and all the way to the fridge before the weariness grabbed me. I leaned my forehead against the smooth surface of the freezer, squeezing my eyes shut. My fist thumped against the fridge three times and then I broke away.

I didn't have time for dramatizing. I had to get to work by eight.


	2. Cheetah-print

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened after work, and the aftermath of dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sudden burst of inspiration. Let me say: I hope you like angst. This story will likely have some brighter moments, but not just yet.
> 
> I'm used to writing longer chapters for stories, but this one seems to demand short, almost brusque chapters. Thoughts?
> 
> Made some minor updates to leave you guys a little less confused. Not much, just a little. :p

On my eleventh birthday, I learned to use my rifle.  
It had been a present from my uncle. He was a lonely old bastard who never got the son he wanted, so he saw fit to corrupt his sister's daughter instead. Out at his cabin that winter, he taught me to shoot Canada geese.  
When I was fourteen, I shot a black bear.  
When I was eighteen, I shot my first man.

* * *

 

I woke up on the bus ride home, just before my stop.  
Like clockwork.  
I didn't dwell on what that might mean – the fact that my body was used to this, that I could schedule naps in the nooks and crannies of my day and wake up like a wind-up toy to make up for the missed hours of sleep during the night.  
I stood, unwrapping my backpack strap from where it was looped around my leg – to protect from pickpockets – and grabbed the two measly bags of groceries from the seat next to me.  
I tried to keep my face distant as I walked to the side exit of the bus, tried to muster up the thick layer of drugged stupidity all the other bus passengers wore. I was half-certain that was an excessive caution; these people could not know the difference.  
The airbrake on the bus let out its low hiss, and the doors before me eased open. I stepped off the bus and forced myself not to look backwards to see if they bought my charade of normality.  
As the bus puttered off, I lit up a cigarette and started on the thirty-minute walk home.  
There were bus routes that landed closer to the apartment. I did not take them. I set up no routines that would lead to there.  
Just in case.

* * *

 

Once I got home, I unloaded the groceries and sorted them into the fridge. Three litres of pig's blood on the left; carrots, eggs and milk on the right. I poured a glass of the blood and made my way down the hall to his room.  
I opened the door gently, cautiously peering in to see if he was sleeping.  
His face was peering out from the covers, smiling wanly at me.  
A flicker of warmth lit up in my ribcage. In an instant, I was sitting on the bed beside him, following the line of his forehead with my thumb.  
“Here,” I whispered, handing him the glass.  
Judas pulled a face, but shifted to sit up straight in the bed.  
“Drink it,” I urged.  
He hesitated. I knew he could tell already what it was, could probably smell the difference. All the same, I had to try. Something had to work.  
He took the glass, and bravely swallowed a gulp before cringing and turning his face away.  
“Finish up,” I said, tilting the glass toward his mouth.  
Without further comment, Judas chugged the rest of the glass down. He set it down on the nightstand with a small slam that conveyed a wish to throw it clear across the room.  
“That is cold, and disgusting, and dead,” he spat, scooting away from the nightstand and hugging himself. “I won't ever drink that again.”  
“Hey,” I interrupted, leaning in toward him and peeling his arms away from his chest. “Thank you.”  
He nodded, and the protest in him melted just a bit.  
I laid down next to him on the twin bed, curled in that tiny space and resting his head on my chest. I clutched his icy hand and tried to warm it with my own. I knew, of course, that it was futile, but some habits die hard.  
“How was work?” he said, fumbling with my fingers.  
“Dreadful,” I sighed, but did not elaborate. I wasn't going to waste these few precious hours with him talking about such distasteful things.  
I bit my lip, took a breath, and decided to dive in.  
“We could go,” I suggested, “to this little cafe I found. It has a cute little garden and... I thought you'd like it. It's not far.”  
“I'd like that,” he replied. He smiled but it looked pained.  
Abruptly, he lurched forward. His hand shot down and clutched his stomach. His face went animal then, and he leapt from the bed in a fluid motion, jabbing his bony knee into my thigh. He bounced off the wall and scrambled across the hall into the bathroom.  
I heard the thunk of the toilet lid, and then the sound of him retching.  
I lay in the bed for a moment, chewing on my bottom lip and staring at the far wall. The intention to get up and help him was there in my bones, but somehow my body wasn't responding.  
I heard him sobbing quietly, the sound eerily echoed into the toilet bowl.  
I got up from the bed, walked out into the hall – past the open door of the bathroom – and to my room at the end of the hall. From the top shelf in my closet I pulled down my rifle case. I tugged on my boots and my long jacket, and walked out of the apartment.  
I didn't like doing the job without a plan, without a mark. I presumed no illusions about what I did for Judas. I was not the decider of who was worthy of life or death, but I tried at least to only kill those who hurt others, who caused more destruction around them than good.  
It didn't take long. I was staunchly against killing close to the apartment, but Judas didn't have time for me to go traipsing over half the city for a safe target.  
I found her working a lonely corner in front of a miserable motel, pacing angrily. In spite of the chill, she wore a short skirt that barely covered her assets, a faux cheetah-fur jacket, and sparkling gold heels.  
I didn't let myself pause and wonder if that was a harmful enough crime to warrant her death. I crouched down swiftly in the shadows, assembled my rifle, attached the silencer, and shot her. One shot – to the heart. Her body hadn't even hit the ground before I was jogging over to the motel and unscrewing the cap from my bottle.

* * *

 

When I returned home, I was covered in a thin layer of cold sweat.  
I thrust the still-hot bottle into Judas' hands. He stared at me, alarmed, and edged away.  
“Drink it,” I snarled. “Drink it right now.”  
“Angel–”  
“Drink it,” I repeated, pushing the bottle toward his face, unscrewing the cap for him. “Is she good enough for you? Is this enough for you now? She was alive when I took it from her. Does that smell appetizing for you? Or does her hooker blood make you nauseous, too?”  
He stood there, his wide eyes staring back at mine, his hands shaking.  
“Okay,” he acquiesced. “Okay.”

That night, all three litres of pig's blood were poured down the toilet.


	3. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things go disastrously wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided you all had had enough of not knowing what the hell was going on. So here, finally a straightforward chapter. Might you actually learn the gender of your narrator. :p

I came to at work.

I was staring down at my hand, which clutched a stack of letters I was supposed to be sorting. I didn't know how long I had been standing there holding them. Around me, the machinery of the mail room churned a noisy rhythm.

I licked my lips uneasily. There was a spot of blood under my fingernail.

“Yo, earth to Captain Space Cadet,” someone said to me. My head jerked up.

The intruder was an intern – I was pretty sure his name was Daniel – who was staring at me expectantly.

I narrowed my eyes at him, swallowing the bile of distaste that rose in the back of my throat. He had the misguided audacity to come to work in jeans and a button-down shirt – the latter which was coming untucked – and had smears of dusty ink on his hands where I presumed he had gotten into a battle with the copier.

I raised my eyebrow at him, not wanting to expend the words to ask what he wanted.

“Do you want coffee?” he asked slowly, intentionally, as if I was mentally challenged. Honestly, that might be a valid concern in this place.

“I'm taking orders,” he clarified, when I didn't respond, and gestured down to a notepad he was carrying. “I'm making a run.”

“I'll have an espresso,” I spat, and turned away from him.

“Are you all right?” he asked. I heard him step closer.

“Get the hell away,” I growled, rubbing the spot on my nail and hiding it in my pocket.

He stood silently for a full minute, his eyes burning a hole in my back, before he walked away.

I was going to get caught.

I was going to get caught and Judas was going to die.

I had partially been counting on the hope that my victims were so low on the social ladder that not much effort would be made to investigate their deaths. Drug-related murder was common in the city.

Stupid mistakes like this – I was slipping. I hadn't brought my gloves last night. What had I touched at the scene?

My head was spinning. Absently, I set the stack of envelopes down and made my way outside. It was break time, I realized with a glance at my watch. Time for a break.

Outside, I managed to keep myself together more than I expected to. I leaned against the wall and lit up a cigarette.

My hand only shook a little bit. 

* * *

 

When I came back inside, a cup of espresso was sitting on my desk, a lonely island in the midst of the rigidly straight stacks of paper.

I frowned as I approached it. I hadn't expected him to actually buy me a coffee after I had been such a jerk to him.

There was a note tucked under the cup.

 

_Sorry you were having a bad day. Hope it turns around._

_Maybe we can go out sometime?_

_\--David_

 

I bit my lip.

First, I felt a twinge of guilt in my gut. Then an anxiety that I had been so transparent. Then an anger at him for being so intrusive.

He had paid for my drink.

That was not going to fly. Did he think he could just buy me a drink and I would be his floozy? Was I supposed to fawn over him and his stupid golden hair? I could take him down even without my rifle.

I grabbed my pocketbook and stormed upstairs to the intern office, intent on showing him where he could shove his favors and his concern.

I had just spotted him at his desk when his cell phone rang.

I ducked around the corner.

Cell phones were very strictly against office policy; we were a printing firm, and very stringent measures were taken to prevent theft of intellectual property. On more than one occasion people had lost their jobs over it.

What was a brown-nosing intern doing with a phone?

“Hello?” he said into the phone quietly.

“Yes...? What? Oh my god.”

That last sentence held a weight that I felt it as a sick punch to my own stomach. I peered around the corner and saw David running his hand over his face, breathing deeply and staring blindly down at his desk.

“When did it happen?” he whispered.

“I understand,” he said, shaking his head. “I... hold on. I'll put you on hold while I go outside.”

He grabbed his hoodie off the back of his chair and made for the door. I dove out of his sight.

After he disappeared, I made toward his desk to drop the money on it. I crossed paths with – my throat caught – the floor manager.

He frowned, looking at me and then peering into the empty intern office.

“Do you know where Michelson is?”

I released my breath. He didn't seem to be concerned about why I was upstairs.

Wait, Michelson. That was David.

“Uh... he just went to the bathroom.”

My fingers twitched. I wanted to shoot that little prat. Now he had me lying for him.

“Oh. All right. I'll catch him later.” The manager cast a curious glance at me before disappearing.

Calm down, Angel.

I decided I'd stick it to David whenever he was done having his little drama episode.

* * *

 

Shredding papers was soothing, in a hypnotic sort of way. I had been cooped up in the shredding closet for over an hour, demolishing old copies of manuscripts that the firm couldn't throw in the trash.

Eventually, the bag that held the confettied manuscripts was filled almost to bursting. I sighed and shut off the machine.

Tying up the bag, I dumped it on my mail cart and started my way outside to throw it in the dumpster.

At the end of the hall, I froze.

Blue and red lights were flashing in from the front window. Outside, I could see two police cars parked at odd angles, their siren lights spinning. Instinctively, grabbed the letter opener off my mail cart.

Two officers were standing in the front office. One was on his walkie-talkie, the other was speaking to the receptionist, who looked scared out of her mind.

“Angel Martin?” I heard her say, incredulously. “The mail-room girl? Oh my god. Yeah, yeah, she'd be downstairs. Oh my god, I can't believe–”

I bolted back down the hall.

There was a back door to the office, but my guess was they had that one covered, too. The only other exit I could make it to was out the window of the kitchen, on the second floor.

I was almost to the stairs when I ran into David Michelson.

He was just coming out of the supply closet, grief heavy on his face. He was about ten feet away from me, but was between myself and the stairs.

A walkie-talkie chirped from the hallway behind me, around the corner.

From up the stairs came the sound of footsteps and laughter.

I didn't have any time.

I gripped the letter opener and rushed toward the supply closet. David watched me with confusion wrought all over his face. I met his gaze dead-on and slipped into the closet. He continued to stare at me as I shut the door.

Before Michelson had a chance to speak up, I heard the cops approaching.

“Have you seen Angel Martin around here?” one of them asked hurriedly. It was a man's voice, with a bit of a Southern drawl. He was right outside the door.

“Angel? No, I haven't seen her for hours.” David sounded casual. Too casual for someone who had two cops suddenly in his office asking for one of his coworkers.

Stupid, stupid David.

By some miracle, the cop was in too much of a rush to notice, and jogged past him and down the stairwell.

“Oh my _god_ , what's going on?” said a female voice. I recognized it – that was Lillian. She worked in customer service. I guessed she had been the one coming down the stairs.

“No idea,” David replied.

“Should we be evacuating or something?”

David apparently gave a nonverbal response, because I didn't hear anything.

“I'm getting out of here,” Lillian said. “No way. This is way dangerous.”

After a few seconds, I heard David's voice.

“You can come out now.”

Cautiously, I edged out of the closet. I circled around David, my letter opener ready to strike. I was much more comfortable with my rifle; I wasn't sure I could take down a guy like David with a pathetic stationary weapon, but I sure as hell wasn't going to be unarmed.

“What's going on, Angel?”

I ignored him and backed up toward the stairwell. I glanced down, where the cops must have gone looking for me in the mail-room.

I signaled for David to stay put, and then crept rapidly up the stairs.

* * *

Somehow, I made it up to the kitchen without further incident.

From there, it was fairly simple to climb out the window and lower myself onto the lid of the dumpster. I slipped through the bushes to the property next door.

I guess they expected me to come quietly, what with being at work and not having my rifle.

I had almost disappeared when I heard the racket. I glanced behind me and saw one of the cops stationed out the back door had spotted me. He was headed for me at a dead run and shouting into his walkie-talkie.

Oh, lovely.

I took off for the closest alleyway and promptly put as many twists and turns between myself and my pursuers.

This was an eventuality that I hadn't planned for. I knew, of course, that I would likely get caught, especially with Judas' appetite growing more and more insatiable. I had many escape plans that started at the crime scene or at the apartment. I had never truly thought through being arrested at work.

I pulled a cell-phone out of my pocket. It was a burn phone – a cheap throwaway phone that had been purchased for exactly one purpose.

As I dove into another alley, I dialed the only number in the contact list.

It rang three times.

“Judas,” I said when it picked up. “Code Blue.”


	4. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is when I wonder if I should tag this story "horror".
> 
> I haven't really decided on that. To me, Horror is after the cheap thrill of scaring the audience.

Judas was fourteen when it happened.

I remember waking up at three AM, wandering outside, and finding mother crying hysterically and clutching my baby brother. Both of them were covered in blood.

I was sixteen.

The hospital had patched Judas up, but declared he was in hypovolemic shock. Massive blood loss due to hemorrhaging.

I donated a pint of blood without a second thought.

The transfusion worked wonders, though he was still weak and severely nauseous. They gave him meds but those only made him vomit. 

Mom didn't stop crying for the whole night.

I sat next to Judas' bed and clutched his hand as they pumped my blood into him, hoping that some color would return to his cheeks.

It never did.

* * *

It took a full year before anyone told me the truth about how they fed Judas. I knew the obvious, of course. We had moved out to my uncle's cabin two weeks after the incident, and in the beginning I had seen them stringing up a twelve-point buck and draining him of blood. Mother simply saw fit, I suppose, not to tell me when uncle switched to killing people. 

* * *

 

We had been living in the current apartment for three months. We had chosen it because the apartment below it was an abandoned renovation project. On our floor, in a closet at the back, we had cut a hole in the floor straight through to the one below. A slab of plywood hid the obvious from casual observation.

Downstairs had direct access to the building's basement, and that had access to the city's sewer main.

It wasn't glamorous, but it was an escape that could be executed in the middle of the day.  
I met Judas at a park, a good mile away from the apartment. He stank profusely, but I ran to him and held him tight against my chest.

He stood silently, allowing me to hold him but not returning the embrace.  
After a full minute, I released him, looking down at his childish face and assessing if he was all right.

“Here,” he said, handing me my rifle case.

My heart leapt as I took it from him, glad for the security of it.

Unease still stirred in my chest, and I had trouble looking away from my brother. He was watching me, his eyes steely.

“I'm hungry,” he said.

I licked my lips and tightened my fingers around the handle of my rifle case.

“Okay. Okay, we can do something about that.”

* * *

We found our victim, a homeless drunk lying unconscious in a lonely alley. I was keen on not using my rifle and making a trail of murders to lead to our new hiding place. That meant the kill had to be close up.

I unthreaded my belt from its loops and jerked it over the man's head, pulling it tight from behind. He woke, struggled, coughing and trying to grab me, but my grip held firm.  
Judas appeared then, melting into being where before had been only shadows. He slunk down, his muscles moving with the slick grace of a leopard, and crouched down over the flailing body of the man. Judas' face was stone, his mouth a straight line, but his eyes glittered like glass.

Swiftly, he jerked forward, latching his mouth onto the man's neck. The man's screams came out only as desperate gurgling as I hitched the belt higher.

Fear was pumping through my body, more now than I had ever felt when the police were hunting me. Every muscle was screaming at me to run or else I would die, and yet I could not move, could not tear my eyes away from that sight.

In the darkness, I could not see where Judas was looking, but I felt as if those predatory eyes were piercing straight into me. I watched as he swallowed down the blood of my victim, heard the sick sound of the liquid easing down his throat, felt the pulse of the man slow and his body cool against me.

I was about to warn Judas to stop, that me man's heart was about to die, when he sat up and wiped off his lips with his arm.

“I feel better,” he grinned.

I stared at him.

His chin and the front of his shirt were soaked with blood, and streams of it trailed his arms. To my horror, I saw it had spilled down onto me as well.

I shoved the corpse off of me and backed away. Judas sat, smiling contentedly at me, but my head was swimming.

“Let's go,” I said finally. “Let's get out of here.”

* * *

A change had come over Judas.

He was laughing, almost skipping ahead of me in the darkness, then wandering back to me.

He didn't stop moving, even when he tried to keep pace with me. His eyes kept scattering everywhere, taking in everything, and he pointed at indistinguishable shapes in the shadows as if they were clear as day.

I hummed my acknowledgments and kept marching forward. I tried to avoid looking at him, for he was seemingly oblivious to the dried blood caked all over his front.

Around three AM, we came across a girl, probably a runaway, leaning against the wall of a liquor store and smoking a cigarette.

Judas went abruptly still when we spotted her.

“Judas...” I whispered. “Don't.”

He cocked his head at me like a puppy, a blank grin on his face. He didn't seem to even realize I had spoken words. He headed toward the girl jauntily, a playful swing to his step. The girl jerked her head up at him, and her gaze bounced between him and myself. She was clearly uncomfortable with how rapidly Judas was approaching.

“Judas!” I shouted, reaching out my hand as if I could pull him back through the space between us.

The girl didn't like that. She dropped the joint and ran away, into the inky blackness behind the building.

A weight dropped in my stomach.

Judas dashed after her, bounding off the wall of the alley and disappearing.


	5. Yellow

I found them half an hour later, in the drainage ditch in front of a sleazy motel. He was crouched down over her destroyed carcass, holding one puppet-like arm and sucking the blood out from it.

Her glassy dead eyes stared at me.

“Judas...” I whispered.

He stood, swallowing the last of the blood on his lips, and weaved his way to me through the ditch. Tall strands of Indian paintbrushes and wild daisies dusted at his knees.

He stood before me, head tilted to look up at me. The entire front of his body was a mess of blood, down to splatters on his jeans and arms.

“What's wrong, Angel?” he asked. His voice was strange to me - superficially it was the same sweet cherubic voice, but there was something else, something not Judas there.

I shook my head and looked at the ground, my eyes stinging with the threat of tears.  
He closed the last few inches between us, and I felt his wet fingers tracing the line of my face. He brushed a loose strand of hair away and left a streak of blood down my cheek. His fingertips landed beneath my chin and tilted my head up.

“Angel.”

I stared at his lips as they formed my name, haunted by the image. They were deeply red.

“Angel, this...” he gestured back at the dead girl. “This is my nature. You know that. I'm sorry if I scared you.”

I licked my lips and dared to look at the body in the grass. Her torn limbs were sticking out at odd angles, looking like the corpse of a dead deer more than a human.

“She was just a kid,” I said.

“So was I. Will you value her life over mine?” he lilted.

I shook my head. “That's not the point.”

Judas grasped my hands , pulling them toward him.

“Angel. Does it bother you so when I hunt for myself? Why is it fine for you to kill, but not me, when I am the one designed for it?”

“I...” There was a fog in my head that made it hard to think. I felt dizzy. “You're my baby brother.”

“I'm not a baby anymore, Angel,” he sighed. There was a strange sort of pity in his eyes.

“You've changed, Judas. This isn't like you.”

He laughed, a cold laugh that shook my bones. His icy fingers squeezed mine, the wet blood making them slippery.

“Yes. I'm not sick and weak anymore, as I was on that diet of decaying filth you fed me. I'm _alive_. For once in my life since this happened, I'm alive.”

He spun in a giddy circle and grinned at me. Goosebumps raised on my skin. Again I felt the urge to run, the fear that he was about to pounce on me.

I hadn't ever known why Uncle had done the hunting for Judas. Judas _had_ been sickly ever since the attack, and it was a constant struggle to see what diet changes might help him. I had thought of it, of course, but... I couldn't. I couldn't let him be the monster.

Judas slid his hand down my arm to my wrist.

“Come. Let's go; the night is young. You can bring that silly rifle if you want. You won't need it.”

I licked my lips and gripped the handle of my rifle case.

Suddenly, he laughed and dragged me up out of the ditch, his grip tight on my arm. He ran me onto the empty highway and spun us in intoxicated circles under the yellow light of the sodium streetlamps.

“Let's go,” he repeated, breathing it into my ear. His breath smelled of rotting meat.

I squirmed and pushed him away, stepping backward on the pavement. I shook my head, trying to clear it of the dizziness.

“No,” I whispered. “You've got to stop this.”

I looked up at him. He met my gaze evenly.

“I can't...” I choked, looking back into the ditch at the dead girl.

When I looked back at him, he gave a soft, sad smile. And then he vanished.

I stared at the empty spot where he had been standing, but there were only shadows.

* * *

I had been walking for hours along the desolate highway when a truck came rumbling up behind me.

I continued trudging along in the edge of the road, trying to not look too conspicuous albeit covered in blood.

The truck came to a stop next to me.

“ _Angel_? Jesus Christ, what are you doing out here?”

My heart seemed to stop beating for a second.

I looked up slowly, but I already knew that voice.

Sure enough, David fricking Michelson was sitting in the idling truck, head hanging out the driver's side window. His stupid model-like wavy hair was perfect even now.

I had lost the ability to move, to speak. I stared at him uncomprehendingly.

Finally, my mouth moved uselessly, flapping silent syllables. _Leave_ , I tried to say. _There's a vampire running around killing everyone. Run away._

My mind couldn't compute it. I couldn't connect my life with Judas to suddenly effecting the harshly suburban reality of this printing firm intern in a pickup truck.

“Are you all right?” He asked, and to my horror I saw he was unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the truck.

 _No_ , I tried to say. I shook my head and tried to back away, but he was already on me.

“Jesus, Angel, you're covered in blood? What the hell is going on...?”

His hands were on my shoulders, steering me toward the truck, but I could see the doubt flicker across his face as he thought of the police cars showing up at the office.

“We've got to get you to a hospital,” he grunted as he lifted me into the passenger seat and buckled me in.

He smelled of spearmint gum and wood.

I was still staring out the windshield when David slid into the driver's seat and shut the door.

“What is that thing?” he asked, nodding toward my lap.

I blinked, realizing I was still clutching my rifle case. I shook my head and hugged it to my chest.

“What's going on, Angel?” he asked again, more gently this time. The truck was moving now, coasting slowly down the pitch-black highway.

I opened my mouth to answer him, but couldn't find the words.

“It's complicated,” I said finally.

“Sure looks it,” he scoffed, his hand working the stickshift up a gear.

“You wouldn't understand.” I looked away from him, out the window to the trees rolling past, and wondered if Judas was about to leap out of one of them and rip David to pieces.

“Try me.”

“No.”

David sighed, but didn't press any further on that subject.

“Are you okay?” he asked, glancing at the blood stains.

“Yeah. It's not mine.”

I saw his muscles stiffen with alarm, his adam's apple bob as he swallowed, and he threw one more surreptitious glace at my rifle case.

Deciding it was best to turn the suspicion around the other way, I turned to face him more directly.

“What are _you_ doing out here?”

David frowned.

“Ah. That,” he said, swallowing again. He let out a deep breath. “My mom is dying. I'm going to see her.”

“Oh,” I said, looking down again. I had guessed it was something like that. I was silent for a few seconds before I spoke again.

“Why are you helping me?” There was the tiniest edge of helplessness in my voice, and that infuriated me.

David shook his head.

“I don't even know. I just... You seem like a good person. I want to trust you.”

“You shouldn't,” I said bitterly. I looked out the window again. “I'm not innocent,” I added quietly.


End file.
